My Antiques
You sit
in your oak-ness,
benign,
you would have me believe.
If emotions raised more than
my temperature
you’d a burned up a long time ago.
My antiques.
Such hogwash.
What good are old things
in holding memories
when they can’t speak?
What good are memories
when you can’t tell the difference
between sweet regret
and fond embrace?
They both hurt your heart.
They both just sit there
in the wrong place.
And I can’t move them
any more than I can move
the oak sideboard
full of grandma’s virgin china
out of this damn wind blown desert
down the long sky road.
Hey, thank you. H. (I have to tell you when I saw 'Camus' there, I was half afraid to see what was written there)
"half afraid"
Nice one, I use the half option alot.
"and you’d be half right." for example.
I stole it from Morrissey.
It's very flexible.
I find your poems refreshing in this environment.
How astonishing.
Unless it is a two part question, you can't be 'half right'. Like half pregnant. You can be equal parts fearful and brave, though. You just choose which half to suppress and which half to run with.
One can be a half wit.
Half baked.
Half snockered.
Half awake.
The half of brave and coward that you choose decides which way you run. All brave are fearful. It helps.
Half intelligent.
Half an hour.
Too much by half.
Like the pome. Don't care for my comments. Not by half.
At least it's not about baseball, which is not a sport.
By the way, I have a lot of anitques, most of them airplanes, and one of them I married.
I'm gonna tell your wiiiife. She's gonna kick your aaaaass.
Nicely done, Holly.
Les